


Bet.

by headsupimhere



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Human AU, Humor, M/M, USUK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:58:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headsupimhere/pseuds/headsupimhere
Summary: Maybe Alfred’s had a few glasses too many. Or maybe it’s just the pussy part of his brain trying to tell him that if he continues, he’ll likely want to hibernate in bed for the next year. Or, maybe he’s just getting started and his conscience is absolutely wrong because he’s getting absolutely smashed tonight and no one is going to tell him otherwise.Alfred makes a bet that he'll bed the first person he sees in aweek. It's both the beginning and the very end of his life.





	1. Chapter 1

Maybe Alfred’s had a few glasses too many. Or maybe it’s just the pussy part of his brain trying to tell him that if he continues, he’ll likely want to hibernate in bed for the next year.  _ Or _ , maybe he’s just getting started and his conscience is absolutely  _ wrong _ because he’s getting absolutely  _ smashed _ tonight and no one is going to tell him otherwise.

Throwing his credit card down on the bar, he orders three drinks for himself and his friends, who are currently having a little bit of a punch-off, clearly seeing which can take the most of a beating against his arm. Alfred shakes his head, laughing at them and frowning a bit at the drink different from the other two as he slips his card back into his pocket and lifts the three of them and moves them to their table.

Gilbert snickers to himself as he sees the differing drink as well, pulling both his and Mathias’s away from it. “And how is your plan of getting ‘absolutely smashed’ going,  _ kleiner Amerikaner? _ ” Alfred sends him a look from across the table as he sits back down, watching the other two clink their mugs and prepare to chug down what lies inside of them. Then, he glances at his pathetic excuse for a drink, chocolate milk. On a normal day, he’d be thrilled to have this sort of delicacy, but when it’s compared to the good stuff, it’s like drinking piss.

“It’s going great, actually,” he laughs, but continues to glare holes through that stupid glass mug in Gilbert’s hand. “I think I could drink you under the table at this rate.” Gilbert lets out that loud, hissy laugh of his before finishing off the mug and slamming it down on the table. Mathias is still far behind, eyes wide as he removes the mug from his lips and glares.

“You cheated!”

“How on Earth could I have cheated,  _ Saugnapf? _ Is it simply because the awesome me is so good that you think I would cheat in a beer-drinking contest?” Again, the laugh. Alfred takes a sip of his chocolate milk, watching the two. He often feels like a child observing his very-much-adult parents fight over little things, always bickering whenever they all came to drink. Though, he supposes he should be glad that he could even come in and ‘chill with the bros’ at all. After all, the two before him had done an awful lot of work to get him access. Including not allowing him to do much more than carry a glass of beer to either one of them. In reality, he’s nothing more than a push-stool, just making deliveries from the bar, and often paying.

But it’s a good time, anyway, because he gets to people-watch while Gilbert and Mathias start shouting wars. Oh, what he’d give to be able to drown under that beer tap, then spring up and take both of them on at once. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again, only this time, they won’t be sober.

“Oh! Alfred!” Mathias turns his attention to the American sitting there, awfully quiet. He gains the teen’s attention immediately, seeing as he has nothing else to do than listen to those two voices go off in one ear, then again in the other. And then both simultaneously. “I had one of the most wonderful ideas.”

“Don’t tell him  _ my _ idea!” Gilbert interrupts, mentally pushing his way in between the two of them. “You gotta get yourself someone to  _ vögeln _ , Alfred! You are a sad, sad man! Even Mathias over here has someone, and damn, if Feliks doesn’t have courage to be with him—”

“Hey!”

“Anyway! I have a bet for you,  _ Amerikaner _ . So listen close.” Alfred leans a little closer, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to go out on the street. You’re going to look around, and the first person you see — the very  _ first _ person, you have to get into your bed.”

“Seems easy enough, Gilbert, almost too—”

“In a week.” Alfred eyes him suspiciously, humming.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Aside the body stuff, how does one hundred dollars sound?”

“Make it two and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Alfred smirks, and Gilbert rolls his eyes before reaching forward to take Alfred’s outstretched hand.

Within the following hour, as Alfred watches the two men slowly become less rambunctious with each pint, he thinks about how exactly he’ll approach whomever it may be. Who knows? Maybe he’ll get lucky and some hot chick will be standing there, just waiting for a strong man like Alfred to take her home. He’ll have a good night with her, and the bet will be over, and that will be that. But something inside of him, arguably the logical part of his mind, knows that it won’t happen, and that his life is not like a movie.

He only hopes that it’s not some elderly woman, but even then, he can call off the bet and allow himself to take the hit to his ego. It would be much better than having some cougar up in his face — the mere thought brings him to a physical gag.

At some point, Gilbert sets his mug down on the table and sighs, patting his stomach and grinning slyly. “Ready to head home,  _ mein Freund? _ ” Mathias takes a moment to nod through his haze, and Alfred pushes himself to his feet, taking a breath. “Little Alfred here looks scared,” Gilbert moves around the table to clap a hand down on Alfred’s shoulder. “Does it make you scared to know you’ll lose our bet?”

“The only thing that scares me is how egotistical you are, Gilbert.”

“Says you,” he grumbles, moving away and lugging Mathias up from his seat. Alfred leads the way, ignoring all of the stares from those of-age folk. He knows he’s underage, he  _ knows _ he’s not technically allowed to be here, but he  _ is _ , and that should be all that matters. Glancing over his shoulder a few times, he sees that the two drunkards are behind him and he steps aside with the door in tow, holding it for them both. It’s wet outside, and rather dark by now, both with the cloud cover and the absence of the sun. The only things illuminating the way are the streetlamps and the headlights of cars, and in all reality, it’s a pretty sight. London’s pretty, even with all of the rain. When he’d first moved to the United Kingdom, Alfred had thought he’d never get used to the rain, but it has grown on him.

Lowering his eyes to the ground, he takes the final steps out. Gilbert tugs him closer by the arm and Alfred can almost feel the smirk radiating from his face. Gilbert makes a comment to Mathias about there being a good crowd, then his voice is louder in Alfred’s ear as he turns to look at the American. “Go on, then.”

Alfred lifts his head, and almost immediately, he spots the back of someone across the street. Fortunately, they  _ don’t _ have white or grey hair, and that soothes Alfred beyond belief. Rather, a mess of blonde-turned-yellow by the street lamp above them. They look to be in somewhat of a rush, from the way their shoulders are beside their ears and one of their hands is in a fist at their side.

“Got one?”

He nods, and Gilbert places his palm flat against Alfred’s back before shoving him in that direction. Alfred stumbles forward a bit, then looks back at them. “Shouldn’t I drive you guys home? I mean, I’m the Designated Driver and all.”

“We’ve got it covered. Mathias’s got some cab place on speed dial.” Gilbert sends Alfred a smirk, “I’ll be making purchases with that two hundred in mind,” then turns on his heel and walks away with Mathias beside him. Alfred turns his gaze back to whomever that was, scanning the crowd and catching a glimpse before securing his passage across the street. There’s no walkway, but he doesn’t really care as he darts out and to the other sidewalk, keeping that yellow colour — which is becoming more and more of a blob as the rain hits Alfred’s glasses and muddies the scene — in his sights.

After barely avoiding quite a few collisions with people going slower than he is as they wander along the path, he finally catches up with the mystery person, who he now sees is carrying a black umbrella over their head. He’s careful to wipe the collected water off of his lenses and puff up his hair a bit, then moves onward to stride next to them.

Unknowing of what else to say, he supplies a simple, “Hey there!”. The person beside him, shorter than him by an obvious amount, makes an uncertain sound before speaking. They don’t look up at him at first, but then the umbrella lifts by a little bit and the greenest eyes Alfred’s ever seen greet him. And…  _ eyebrows _ .

“Ehm, hello?” Male. Absolutely male. No doubt about it.

“How are you?”

“I was doing perfectly fine until you decided to invade my space,” the man says, taking a step away. Alfred’s mind tells him to move closer, but he respects the man’s space at least a little bit. A Brit, but what’s so surprising about that? He’s supposed to be unsurprised because he lives in London, but the way the accent just  _ flows _ off of this man’s tongue is impeccable. “What is it that you want?”

“Just wanted someone to chat with, y’know?”

“At eleven o’ clock, when it’s pouring outside? One would figure you would have a little more common sense.” The man snaps, and somehow, Alfred finds it kind of cute. He seems to care, even if it’s a sort of tough love. “Will you quit following me?”

“I ain’t following you, just walking beside you.”

“It’s ‘am not’, not ‘ _ ain’t _ ’, and you are! You might as well be stepping on my coattails, following me like that!” The man snaps, stopping in his tracks and glaring up at Alfred. “Go bother someone else, you yank, before I deal with you myself.” The threat is left open as the man turns on his heel and walks a bit faster, but just as a fisherman would with a nasty fish, Alfred reels himself back in and regains that distance put between them in record time.

“And what’ll you do to me?” The man grumbles something, and Alfred leans down. “What was that?”

“I said, ‘I’ll have you arrested’, you dodgy twit! Now piss off!”

“You gonna give me a name to remember you by, at least?”

“Why would you need to bloody remember me if you never see me again!”

“I think you’re pretty cool.”

“You barely know me!”

“Well, that ain’t —”

“‘ _ Isn’t _ ’,” he hisses, causing a smile to break onto Alfred’s face at the fact that he’s still listening to what Alfred has to say, if nothing else.

“ _ Isn’t _ my fault! I’m not the one pushing someone, who is obviously a great-looking and incredibly modest hunk, away! I just want to know your name, man.”

“Modest,” the man laughs to himself, but it’s not a real laugh, it’s more like a snide snicker.

“Anything I can do to get it?”

“No.”

“Not even carry your bag for you? Looks pretty heavy.” Alfred eyes the backpack hanging rather loosely off of the man’s shoulders.

“And risk waterlogging all of my items? Pass.”

“Then I can carry the umbrella over both of us!” Alfred is trying desperately, because what if the guy suddenly ducks into an apartment complex, and they never see each other again? He’s got to be quick on his feet.

“I can handle my own things, thank you, now  _ leave me alone _ .”

“C’mon, man! A name! That’s all I want!” Alfred reaches out to tug on his backpack strap, but stops himself. “Why are you so uptight, anyway?”

“Because, Yankee, I got through all of my classes today, then ran to work and stayed there for six  _ bleeding  _ hours before I was late to a date I was stood up for anyway! And  _ now _ , there’s some wanker following me on the street like a pedophile, but all he wants is my name!” Alfred goes quiet for a moment, thinking about it. This guy was seriously stood up on a date? And — hold on a minute, he called Alfred a pedophile!

“How old are you?”

“Twenty— w-why does that matter to you!” At least twenty. That’s wonderful. Still young, and still incapable of calling Alfred a pedo for trying to get a guy… into his bed by the end of the week. Well, it sounds a lot worse when it’s fully spelled out. The principle of the matter is still there, and that makes him  _ not _ a pedo. Besides, the man’s of legal age. It’s all good. It’s all of Alfred’s benefit of being laid for once. Which… can still be overlooked, as a matter of fact. The principle. All about the principle.

“Wanted to make sure I’m not walking with some sixteen year old kid.”

“As if I could be mistaken for a teenager,” the man scoffs, then lifts the umbrella to look up at Alfred with a huff. “Twenty-four.”

“Then I should call  _ you  _ the pedo!” Alfred laughs to himself, and the umbrella drops, hiding the man’s eyes again as he huffs. “I’m only nineteen, man, trying to get myself out there.”

“Quit calling me ‘man’! If anything, you should respect your elders—”

“Then give me a name to call you, and I’ll quit!” Alfred is sure he’s got the man on this one. “My name’s Alfred, and yours?”

“None of your damn business,” the man turns sharply to the left, closing his umbrella as soon as he’s under the canopy outside of an apartment building. Alfred stands out in the pouring rain, still, not welcoming himself into the dry as he watches the man straighten his bag on his shoulders and shake off his umbrella. “Now, go get yourself warmed up before you catch your death.”

The man turns and opens the door, not turning to look back at Alfred as soon as he’s inside the likely-heated building. He sees an elevator opening and someone stepping in, but he can’t confirm whether its his mystery guy or not.

Nonetheless, Alfred mentally presses down his ruffled feathers and about-faces, walking back in the direction of the pub, and by extension, his truck. The cold water dripping down under his collar is enough to send a shiver up his spine, but he tries to ignore it as he lifts his arms and hooks a hand into each elbow. Beside his noisy little heater sounds like a wonderful place to sleep tonight, even after taking a scalding shower to fight off the freeze that is steadily reaching his core.

When he finally gets back to his old truck, he pulls himself inside and lets out a heavy breath. What is he going to do now? The most he has in terms of a lead is where the guy lives, but it’s not like anyone would care to give him a specific apartment, if they even know the guy. Maybe he’ll try tomorrow. He just can’t let Gilbert win. He’s already broke as it is, and two hundred bucks deeper is not the direction in which he wants — or can afford — to go.

He’ll get this mystery man; he has to.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred snaps up off of the floor at the early hour of 10 AM with a crick in his neck and a pain in his side, but at the very least, he got a decent night’s rest by the heater. So what if it was on the floor? He’s really only surprised that Kiku didn’t come wake him up to ask if he’s sick with how close he was to the warmth.

He’s got a pep in his step as he tosses his blankets into the laundry basket and pulls out a casual outfit, moving to the bathroom. His shower is quick, the time he takes to get dressed is quicker, and he’s out the door by 10:17 with a smile on his face and a plan in his mind.

Sitting in his truck, he hums to himself as he makes his way out of the area and across town, planning exactly what he’s going to say to whomever he meets there. The guy seems like a pretty memorable person, just from his tongue and the eyebrows, but he hopes he won’t have to explain any further. What else would he say without possibly offending the guy? Cynical? Jesus, he doesn’t even have a name.

What if he’s not even there? Left for classes hours ago?

Alfred sighs, leaning against the wheel as he eyes the bumper of the car in front of him. Oh, how much he misses the states, though they were almost as bad in some areas. Depended on the time of day.

When he finally reaches the pub, he parks outside and glances out to where he saw the man the night before, grinning as he remembers the way from there.

It’s almost like retracing steps to find something lost, but there’s more meaning to it, he thinks, somehow. So he moves onward and finally recognises the canopy and steps underneath it, taking a breath. He sees someone standing inside against a wall with a phone in her hand, and he wonders if he can just ask any old person to find out who this mystery guy is and where he’s at.

Pulling the door open, he flashes a smile to her and approaches. “Do you, by chance, live here?” She looks up and raises her eyebrows before saying something in another language, and Alfred apologises quickly, hoping he got the language right, whichever one it was.

Already, he’s having some pretty shit luck, and that’s not really helping his mood at all.

Until he sees a nicely-dressed man exit the elevator — though, he wouldn't have been able to recognise that he was a guy without the stubble on his chin — and takes a stab at it, stepping forward. All he can hope is that this guy actually speaks English, and will actually give Alfred the time of day.

“Hey, do you know a blonde guy about this tall,” he gestures with a flat hand at about his shoulder, “green eyes?” The man expresses a knowing look, but Alfred continues. “Eyebrows?”

“I know him,” the man replies in an accent, though from the snippet of words, it doesn’t quite sound English, but Alfred can’t pin it down. “Why do you need him?”

“We were talking last night and he rushed off. Listen — I just need to talk to him. Do you know what apartment he’s in?” The man smirks, looking almost as if he’s attempting to flirt with Alfred. But the American’s on a mission for a completely different guy, so it barely affects him.

“Sure,” the man shrugs. “302. Knock loud, he’s a little out of it this morning.”

“You know him personally?” The guy renews his smirk and turns, continuing towards the door and leaving Alfred to stand there. He shakes his head after a moment and steps into the elevator, heading up to the third floor. Once there, he skims the doors and eventually approaches 302, heeding the French man’s advice and rapping his knuckles against the wood.

There’s a groan from inside, muffled slightly by the door, then nothing for a solid thirty seconds. Alfred knocks again, louder. This time, the groan is louder and actually sounds like a string of words, steadily approaching, until the door opens and reveals the man from the night before, a complete mess before Alfred.

His hair is even more out of sorts than it had been, his eyes are half shut and puffy, and he’s glaring before he even lays eyes on Alfred.

“You again,” he sounds surprised, yet there's wilt to his voice. “Why the  _ fuck _ are you here.” Alfred raises his hands to chest height in surrender, raising his eyebrows.

“Geez, sorry man. Didn’t know you were a night owl.”

“I’m  _ not _ . Nor am I a morning person. I just want it all to go dark and silent, and for my head to stop bloody spinning.” Glancing into the apartment, Alfred sees an opened bottle of scotch with only a bit left at the bottom of it. “The first thing to make that happen is for you to leave.”

“Got a hangover?”

“ _ Yes _ . And a god-awful one, at that.” The man slurs, leaning slightly against the door as he clearly gets a bout of dizziness. Alfred’s had a lot of practice in this field, especially with two drunkard friends, and he knows exactly what will soak up all that extra liquor and make it almost completely disappear. “Who gave you my flat number?”

“Your apartment? I dunno, some French guy.”

“Oh, you utter  _ twat _ , Francis,” Arthur growls under his breath, then looks up to Alfred with the best poker face he can pull with all of his brain juices sloshing around inside of his head. “Thank you for stopping by — what was it… Alfredo? — but don’t come again.” The door begins to shut, and Alfred pushes his hand against the door, stopping it.

“Alfred,” he reintroduces himself to the hungover version of the guy from last night. “And I can help you with your hangover.”

“No thank you, I’m perfectly fine, goodbye.” The guy tries shutting the door again, but Alfred just applies more pressure and keeps it open. He  _ can’t _ give up and lose this bet. Besides, he’s almost intrigued with how this will all play out.

“I can get you tea,” Alfred offers. “Eggs? Bananas? Oatmeal? Chicken noodle soup? Dude, I’ll make it from scratch, just let me help.”

“What is your damn obsession with me?”

“I like you.” The guy lets out a laugh and steps away from the door, letting Alfred in. Strangely, the American stays outside for a moment, noticing the sudden shift. He then steps in, shutting the door behind him. “Why’d you laugh?”

“No person with a functioning mind likes me,” Arthur laughs again, sitting himself down on the sofa and reaching for the scotch. Despite what little contents the bottle has left, Alfred swoops in and snatches it from him, shaking his head.

“This’ll only make it worse for future you, ‘hair of the dog’ or not. It’s habit-forming.”

“Don’t test me; I’m already a drunk as it is! Future me will suffer, and I will be liberated from my damn migraine, just  _ give me the damn bottle!” _ The man cringes from the sound of his own voice, lifting a hand to his left temple and sighing out.

“What makes you say that no one likes you?” Alfred ignores Arthur’s attempts, finds the glass stopper, and pushes it into the mouth of the bottle, glancing through cabinets to find where the rest of the liquor is placed.

“They don’t,” the man, even from the other room, sounds as if he’s pitying himself, but something about his tone is off. Self-deprecating in a way. “Loud-mouthed cynic who can’t keep a level head.” Alfred almost wonders if the guy’s quoting someone. “Un-flattering looks — I mean,  _ eyebrows _ . Too thin. Dresses too old for his age. Can’t wash his mouth out with enough soap. Can’t find a deep enough bottle of scotch to do the world a favour and drown himself in.” Alfred re-enters the room with a glass of water, setting it down on a coaster, then placing a little white pill in the man’s hand.

“Hey,” Alfred’s heard enough. “They’re wrong, then.” The man lets out a laugh, looking up at Alfred with lazy eyes.

“What do you know?” Alfred flashes his famous megawatt smile and sits himself down next to the poor guy, careful not to jostle him too much.

“Well, I know you ain’t too bad-looking, for starters,” Alfred looks at him, tilting his head and really getting a closer look. The guy’s got a little dusting of freckles across his nose and the inner part of his cheeks, which look rather pink. It could just be the liquor being slowly coaxed out of his system, but it’s pretty cute. Those pretty emeralds stare directly into Alfred’s sapphire skies, and Alfred finds himself captivated by the mere colour of them. Pretty pink lips, separated just slightly.

Oh, he’ll have fun capturing this one by the end of the week.

“For… f-for starters…” the man continues, and Alfred tugs himself away, noticing how close he’s gotten.

“Sorry,” Alfred apologises, but he doesn’t mean it. He’s not sorry for staring at something that deserves to be stared at. “I think you’re a perfect size. Not quite pocket-sized, but just a little bigger. And on the clothes thing, they aren’t dressing you, and they aren’t dressing  _ like _ you, so they shouldn’t even have a say.” Alfred stands from the sofa, moving back to the kitchen to start on something he can find the ingredients for. “You are a little stubborn, but I can wait for your name if you’re really dead set on me not having it.”

“Arthur,” he says, and Alfred pauses.

“Arthur?”

“That’s my name.”  _ It’s perfect. _

“I like it,” Alfred smiles, though he knows Arthur can’t see it.

“No one’s ever… done that for me before.”

“What? Said they liked your name?”

“Said they liked  _ anything  _ about me, to be honest.”

“Well, maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.” There’s silence after Alfred says this, and he leaves the conversation at that. Arthur is probably wanting him to shut up anyway, but at the very least, he’s made himself a little welcome. Just a few compliments and he’s almost already got the Brit wrapped around his finger.

After fixing up a bowl of oatmeal — which is easier said than done, because he had to go quite a distance to find ingredients that would work well together — complete with banana slices and a cup of green tea. He wasn’t surprised in the least to find almost every colour of the rainbow’s tea in one of the cabinets, but he wishes he had been. He honestly thought,  _ hoped, _ that whole tea thing was only a stereotype and nothing more.

Moving back out into the main room, he sees that Arthur’s been able to get himself back to sleep, so he heads back to the kitchen and throws some foil over the bowl to keep it at least a  _ little _ warm, then keeps what’s left of the tea in the kettle on a low setting. After lying a blanket over Arthur, he notices that the glass of water is empty, so he heads back to the kitchen and washes it, not caring to drop it in the dishwasher.

Somehow, even with barely knowing Arthur for a day, the caretaking process comes so easily. Maybe it’s all of the practice he’s had with Gilbert and Mathias, but this feels strangely different.

Moving to leave the kitchen, he glances at the refrigerator and notices a few pictures hung up. The magnets are nothing to catch the eye by any means, being as simplistic and sleek as they are, but the images are a completely different story. He leans closer to see Arthur in quite a few of the images, but also another guy. After a moment of thinking back, he realises that this  _ guy _ is the French one from this morning. What was his name… Francis? Are they roommates? Well, that makes sense enough, he supposes, especially with Arthur’s reaction to the guy having given out their apartment number so easily.

Maybe Francis is also playing for Alfred’s team, and is trying to get them together. Wouldn’t that be nice?

 

A couple of hours pass and Alfred makes himself useful, quietly picking up around the apartment while Arthur sleeps. He glances over to see Arthur every now and again, fast asleep, and wonders what the guy would think if he woke up to see Alfred passed out on the couch or the chair beside him. After thinking about it quite a few times, he moves to another room.

This one’s rather messy. The bed is in shambles, sheets and comforter thrown halfway across the room, and the desk beneath the window is covered in papers and an open spiral notebook, also several glasses. So Alfred sets to work fixing the bed (ultimately undoing it all just to redo it), then arranges the pillows in some semblance of order and moves to the desk.

When he reaches it, he moves to lift and shut the notebook, but there are a few words on the page that catch his eye. It looks to be a makeshift planner of sorts, with columns and rows drawn ruler-straight as to keep it neat and perfect.

In the column that reads ‘Sunday’ written in cursive, there’s a couple of scribbled out words. Unlike another day’s, which has a simple line through each of the words, this one has a messy, irrational version. Through the angry pen, though, he can read ‘Date with Antonio’. Beneath the scribble marks, Alfred drags his fingertips over the page and feels quite a few water marks on the page, warping it in multiple places. Even though Alfred knows he has no emotional connection to Arthur, he can imagine the man hunched over the planner with that bottle of scotch, sobbing his lungs out. It brings a pitiful look to his face and he decides to spare as much of the Englishman’s pride as he can, lifting the book, shutting it, and setting it to the side.

He makes quick work of the papers, stacking them and lining them up by tapping the ends against the table, then lies the pile down. Collecting the glasses proves to be more difficult than it should be, but he’s able to take them all in one trip and tiptoes past Arthur to wash them all out in the sink and place them where he believes he finds similar ones.

After only getting rid of an hour or two, Alfred sighs and glances around the kitchen, finding a notepad and a pen lying nearby. Leaning over the counter, he scratches ‘I’m off for now, but I’ll be back sometime later. There’s oatmeal and tea on the stove if you’re hungry, and if you need anything, my number’s below’ onto the paper before adding his number and his name. He’s about to tear it off before he stops himself, leaning back down. ‘P.S. drink a lot of water’ is written with a smiley face beside it, and he tugs it off of the pad, moving out to the main room. It’s folded and left on the table, and Alfred smiles at Arthur’s sleeping form before moving for the door and sighing.

He won’t fall for this mystery man; he can’t.


	3. Chapter 3

After rapping his knuckles against the door, Alfred takes a step away and tries to limit the crinkling of the plastic around the roses behind his back. They’re purely for convincing’s sake, and although Alfred wishes he could give flowers to someone on a genuine note, Arthur is not that person, and will never be. They are clearly incompatible (though Alfred’s not sure if Arthur’s compatible with anyone, really, after that whole date thing — he knows it’s rude to think, but he doesn’t stop the thought as it continues) and Alfred would much rather be with a hot chick than a grumpy old man, even if he’s fine with both. But this is money he’s after, so he’s not going to be picky. Besides, it’s only one time. And he’ll wear a condom, because no STDs will be stunting his life this young, no sir-ee.

The door opens a few moments later and Alfred cracks a smile as he pushes his previous train of thought away, ready to woo Arthur. The sooner the better.

But when the door is open wide enough for a person to step into the space, Alfred immediately notices that it’s not Arthur. They— or, he, with the beard? Maybe? Ah, who knows. He doesn’t care, he’s making the assumption — if he says he’s female, at the most he can shave, right? Because who wants to kiss a bearded… get it together, Alfred. No time for anything like that.

It takes another moment, but he recognises the man from the first floor, earlier this morning. The French one who told him the whereabouts of Arthur. “Oh, hey!” Alfred cheers, and the man lifts an eyebrow, giving Alfred a once-over.

“The American.”

“Alfred.”

“Francis.”

“It’s… nice to meet you. I mean, really meet you.”

“Quite.”

Alright, well the awkward tension is surely thickening, and although Alfred wants to turn around and walk away to come back later when Arthur’s there to open the door, he stands his ground. He takes a breath and keeps his smile. “Is Arthur around? Arthur… ah, I didn’t actually catch his last name. But you probably know him, you told me he lives here and all.” Alfred shifts his weight onto one foot, the plastic crinkling in his hand.

Francis looks amused, especially as that crinkling sound breaks through their uncomfortable conversation. But Francis is certainly the type to weed out the undesirables with a bit of tension. In a way, it’s his first round of tests, secretly conducted without Arthur’s knowledge. But since Arthur can’t seem to land himself a potential partner, Francis has begun to interrogate and poke at those who try. He doesn’t want another ‘Antonio Incident’. He’ll cut out the ones Arthur doesn’t truly want. Even if the person he’s cutting is unaware of his desires. “Yes, I know him. He is in the shower at the moment.”

There’s another silence, almost unbearable for Alfred. But he stands there and holds on. Two hundred bucks is the cinder blocks strapped to his feet. “Well, I… I was here earlier, I helped him with his hangover — at least, I think I did. I have a couple of hardcore drinking pals of mine, and all the things I did for Arthur usually help for them, so I hope I did.”

“He did speak about a guardian angel coming down to give him tea, or something along those lines.” Francis lets out a reserved chuckle. “What are you doing back, if I may ask?” Alfred smiles a bit.

“I brought roses for him. Figured they’d brighten up his room, or… y’know, the living room or something like that. The whole apartment is a little bland.”

“Bland!” The Frenchman suddenly claps a hand to his chest and opens his mouth as if he’s a fashion model having been called chubby. “How dare you insinuate that my decor is bland!”

“ _ Your _ decor? But this is —” Alfred pauses for a moment before clicking his tongue and nodding, making an understanding noise in the back of his throat. “Got it. Roommate?” Francis nods, his eyebrows still raised in a cocky, flippant expression of his distaste. “Sorry, dude, it’s just not my taste. I’m a really big colour guy, myself, if I’m honest with you. But the roses,” he moves them from behind his back, holding them out a little. “Isn’t it, like, a decorative rule to have something red in the room as a pop of colour?” Francis ‘hmph’s before moving to take the roses from him.

“I suppose it may be in your country, but here, red is a terribly bold colour to match with my neutral earth tones.” Francis looks down at the roses, counting them steadily. Thirteen. “A secret admirer, are you?”

“What?”

“Thirteen roses. You did plan that, did you not?” Francis passes a teasing look at Alfred, though his face remains serious. Alfred shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders.

“No, I just happened to have picked thirteen.”

“Interesting,” Francis nods, then steps back and pushes the door open, inviting Alfred in while still holding the roses. Alfred follows, stepping out of the way and glancing around the apartment as if he’d see Arthur sitting in that same spot he left the Brit just a few hours ago. Francis shuts the door and moves for the kitchen, signalling with a wave of two fingers for Alfred to follow.

The American moves to sit at the three barstools on the other side of the half wall, watching as Francis carefully cuts each and every rose stem, then places them all in a deep green vase, arranging them by height and making sure they look presentable. Alfred watches quietly, intrigued by how skillfully Francis’s hands move over the stems, almost as if he’s ignoring the thorns.

“Why did you need to speak with Arthur earlier today? You seemed to be in a hurry.” Francis speaks out of the blue, catching Alfred’s attention and dragging it slowly away from the hands against the roses.

“I told you, didn’t I? He ducked out on our conversation in the middle of it. Wanted to see him again.” Alfred answers plainly, shrugging. “He seems like a pretty cool guy.” Francis snorts.

“A ‘pretty cool guy’, eh? Well, then you must not have spoken with him for long.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My friend, the rosbif, is rather… how you say… dull. Boring.” Francis lifts the vase from inside the sink where it had been resting and sets it on the counter after swiping a paper towel across the bottom of it. “He is the kind to sit outside at a party because the music is too loud.” Alfred raises his eyebrows, looking away.

“Really.” Francis nods, moving from the kitchen to the main room and setting the vase down at the centre of the table. Despite what the Frenchman said, it seems to go very nicely with the colour of the room. The pale blue blanket draped over the back of the couch is complementary to the deep red of the roses, and somehow, they fit. Like Francis was only waiting for a centrepiece to draw the eyes. He adjusts it a few times to find the perfect middle of the table before stepping away and nodding, placing both of his hands on his hips.

“Well, American, I hate to admit it, but you seem to be right about the colour.  _ C'est très magnifique _ .”

“S’cuse me?” Francis passes a look to Alfred, raising his eyebrows and silently asking him, “Really?”.

“It’s very magnificent.” He returns to the kitchen and leans over the counter, his forearms helping him rest there. Alfred takes a minute to look away from the flowers before realising how close Francis is, leaning back.

“Whoa,” he says, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. Is it hot in this stuffy little apartment? It’s really hot in this stuffy little apartment. Not  _ Francis _ , the room. His collar feels suddenly so much tighter. “What’s up, man?”

“What are your intentions with him?” Francis’s breath is nothing short of wonderful (only because Alfred was expecting to smell something worth rotting a whole forest, for one reason or another), and Alfred is taken aback by this fact. Also the whole closeness thing, which was not new by any means, but he’s usually the one instigating things, so it’s strange to have someone so close without his own actions having caused it.

“Intentions?”

“Yes. Your  _ intentions. _ What you plan on doing with him.” Alfred clears his throat, backing off of the stool and standing to step back.

“Oh, well… I mean, is that really any of your business?”

“It is as much of my business as it is his.”

“What are you, his dad or something,” Alfred jokes, laughing a bit until Francis gives him a steady, firm look and he awkwardly looks away, wanting to be anywhere but with this guy right now. What is he supposed to say about his intentions, if that’s what they can truly be called?  _ Oh, yeah, right. I just have to fuck him by the end of the week to get two hundred bucks — that’s two hundred bucks closer to getting the hell out of my roommate’s hair — so that’s really my whole motive for the guy at all. _ That certainly will get him somewhere, even if it’s kicked out of the apartment permanently. “I dunno, I just saw him last night, and I thought he was pretty… cute, so.”

Francis cracks a little smirk, standing tall and crossing his arms over his chest. “Cute? I’m not sure we’re speaking of the same person.”

For some reason, Alfred feels himself bristle at the backhanded insult thrown at the absent man. If anything, speaking behind someone’s back about them is even more cowardly than running away after saying it to their face.

“Your sad version of cute and my very nice version of cute are clearly very different, then,” Alfred says, forcing it less than he expected to have to. Francis’s eyebrows rise as he realises that this American seems to have a functioning spine, even as it had seemed he didn’t, just a few minutes before.

Francis gives Alfred a look that he honestly can’t even pretend to read. He’s gotten better — he can differentiate between sarcasm and seriousness, so his emotional-sensing skills are improving in one way or another. With Arthur, it seems he’ll have to work even harder, though. That man can’t allow a truth to pass his tongue without at least fifteen sarcastic remarks coming across first. “Do you understand why I ask you these things, American?”

“I dunno, are you really protective of him, or something? I’ll tell you, I don’t think he really likes you, just from the way he talked about you yesterday.”

“I’m very well aware of his feelings about me, American, but that does not stop me from caring for his well being just as a brother would for another brother. He loves me deep down, and although he has trouble expressing it, I know it’s there.” Francis seems to go on his own personal tangent for a moment, Alfred just listening and trying to figure out how he’s going to get out of this situation without lying or being completely blocked out of both of their lives. “He is complicated in relationships. He does not believe he is worthy of a partner — and when he’s got  _ his _ past to refer to, I don’t blame him—”

“Hey.” Francis stops, looking up to Alfred, who has this look of confused anger on his face. “No need to throw insults at him. Look, he might not have the best past in that line of work, but that don’t mean he ain’t worthy of—”

“ _ Doesn’t _ .  _ Isn’t. _ Francis, I believe I have gone over basic grammar with you, have I not? I do not care if your first language was one which has so many unnecessary letters, you should learn better. English is, as you’ve said, ‘easier to learn than my  _ beautiful _ native tongue’ after all.” A grousing English accent sounds from the other room, causing both men to look toward the archway into the rest of the apartment. “What’s this?” Arthur moves to the flower arrangement sitting on the coffee table, touching one of the rose petals and looking up to where he believed Francis would be standing alone, but he’s surprised to see Alfred there, as well, and he jolts in place, then glares. “You.”

“You!”

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur cringes, his face barely changing as it shifts into disgust and a hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Quieter, for the love of all things holy.”

“Right,” Alfred smiles a little, forgetting the other man in the room as he walks over and looks the Brit over. “How’re you feelin’? Better, I hope. Didja get the stuff I made you? I hope it was still alright heated up.”

“Yes, it was just fine, why are you back? Here? In my flat?” Arthur crosses his arms tightly over his chest and turns a bit away from Alfred to close himself off, but with Alfred’s emotional illiteracy, he only reads it as playing hard-to-get, grinning and answering honestly.

“I came back to check on my Artie, here, in your flat— well, Americans actually call them apartments, but the fact that we call things different names is really cool, because I like learning about other cultures and stuff like that!” Arthur cringes as Alfred goes on, frowning uncomfortably.

“‘Your Artie’? What, am I a bloody pet to you?”

“Oh! No, nothing like that! Though, it’s a pet  _ name _ , I guess— do you people have those here?” Arthur shuts his eyes and has the sudden urge to slam his face into a wall, but he settles for smacking the meat of his palm against his forehead.

“Yes, Penne, we do.”

“Penne?”

“Is that not your name?” Alfred laughs a little and shakes his head.

“Nah, it’s Alfred. But… close, I guess? That’s a type of noodle, isn’t it? And Alfred sounds like alfredo, so, still related!” Arthur nods and rolls his eyes as soon as he’s past the American, moving into the kitchen to give Francis a look. Alfred follows along, just wanting to make sure Arthur is feeling better. Francis is eyeing Alfred, an intrigued look on his face. Arthur whispers something and Francis nods slowly, then shakes his head. Alfred stops at least a couple of metres away, looking at the two and trying to avoid impeding on their conversation.

“What, again,  _ Alfred _ , are you doing here, exactly?” Arthur speaks again, a smile breaking onto Alfred’s face as he’s spoken to.

“I told you, I’m here to check up on you. Also, the roses.” Francis leans over to Arthur and whispers something, Arthur furrowing his brows immediately afterwards. “Wanted to make up for last night, even though I don’t think I really have anything to be sorry for. If anything, I made up for nothing with taking care of you this morning.”

“After rudely waking me up with your banging on my front door, mind you,” Arthur snaps, and Francis snickers, Alfred throwing his arms up as his pitch rises.

“He told me to knock loud! Said ‘oh, he’s out of it, knock loud!’ so I did!”

“God, you are… so…” Arthur buries his face in his palms and sighs, then looks up at Francis. Alfred can read an over-exaggerated ‘Really?’ on his lips before the corners of that mouth both shoot down with Francis’s admitting nod. There’s a beat before he takes a breath and settles himself, looking to Alfred again. “Thank you for taking care of me earlier, and leaving the refreshments. Now, if you’ll kindly—”

“No!” Alfred shouts much louder than he expects to, but he wants to break his reasoning in there while there’s still a chance. “I mean…” he clears his throat. “Can you give me another chance?”

“I’ve already given you quite a few chances.”

“Have you?” Alfred challenges, thinking back. Really, Arthur’s only shoved him away without a single chance. “Well, in that case, just one more won’t hurt, right? I mean, I  _ really _ …” Alfred stutters to silence, not knowing where to go. He tries to think of something, wringing his hands. “Listen, I don’t just want to give up on this now.”

“Two days and you’re already obsessed with me?”

“Well, no—” Alfred lifts his hands to stop Arthur, but he stops himself before he can continue. Arthur lets out a small laugh, lips curling up into a smile. It’s gentlemanly, covered by a few of his fingers, but it’s there, and Alfred can’t help but feel satisfied with the idea of having created that smile. He’s getting there. He’s just gotta get past this man’s impeccable standards. Of course he had to see the most ridiculously uptight asshole in all of London…

He won’t give up on this, although it seems impossible; he can’t.


End file.
